Painting the Roses Red
by Urchin of the Riding Stars
Summary: Oneshot. When reason meets sentimental, the paint on a flower can become unbearably toxic. DannyxVlad


Hell should not be a place called home.

But in the case of Danny Fenton, it was, and that was that. The time he managed to get away from the haunted little hollow of Amity Park (Which was rare, and scant enough) scarcely made much of a difference. When you're in a body that you so dearly hate-one that belongs neither with the living and animated people of the world, nor with the sleeping dead peacefully underneath the earth and stone in a tomb somewhere, it doesn't make much difference _where_ you are, really. You're always a prisoner-and it's all the more ironic when you're the one holding the keys.

But the correct answer is that Daniel Fenton is not supposed to become melancholy over this fact. He is supposed to fight for the safety of thousands of people that would toss him aside the moment he became but an inconvenience, and were stupid, so very, very stupid enough-to build their town in a place where most of the natural (And unnatural) rift portals between the living world and the ghost zone sporadically open on a daily basis. You'd be better off laying your home's foundation in an abandoned minefield.

But again, that's not the correct answer. Sam would answer as much, and Danny must agree; he sounds like such a jerk when he complains, even to himself. Jazz explains the concept of 'ghost envy' to him, and makes it a point of reminding him each and every day just cool and fortunate he really was. All the benefits of being a human whilst being _superhuman_!

Never mind the terror and the agony that came along with losing half of his humanity; never mind the subsequent dilemma of keeping the fact that you've changed species from the people you love….who may or may not want to slice you into pieces after they've learned the truth.

In the nights that Danny wakes up in a cold sweat, heart pounding wildly in the darkness after he dreams of his mother bending over him with a scalpel, bloodlust in her eyes, he has to question just how unconditional his parents' unconditional love actually is.

Despite the fact that ghosts seem to make it a point to be thorns in his side, Danny usually makes it a point to never, ever kill an enemy, no matter how rotten or how dangerous or how horrible they might truly be. The tyrant Pariah Dark was sealed back into his tomb, Dan Phantom into a thermos, and evil witches like Spectra hurled into the depths of the Ghost Zone-but he never tried to slaughter them. Killing, even if a foe was technically already dead, was wrong. That was one of the correct answers Danny could agree with without little to grudge.

His parents, however, are a different story. Danny can recall the two scheming over how to best dissect a poor spectral butterfly Jack and Maddie had captured when he was only four years old. The thing had been an odd, brilliant emerald color, but it had seemed so desperate and frantic in its little ghost-proof netting in the lab, fluttering against the tiny prison hopelessly as Madeline carefully approached it with a tiny knife. Even as Jasmine cried and begged that the little specimen be set free, Jack would have none of it, and attempted to pull the fragile thing out with his large, trashcan lid-sized hands. Thankfully, Jasmine had had enough good sense to pull him up the stairs, though Danny still remembers looking back at the tiny trickle of ectoplasm staining his father's hands.

Would that be him?

Could that be him?

Of course not, once again, is the "right" answer to give. His parents would love him regardless of any form he took.

But he can't be certain of that, and that's one of the reasons why his allegedly spectacular and rewarding life is a horror. Thankfully, his father's no Einstein, (Not a "correct" answer, but true nonetheless) and he can live with relative peace under the roof belonging to people who would very much like to murder him and seal him up inside of a vacuumed body bag.

Surprisingly, school isn't much better than home, even when you're trying to force yourself to chew while your parents are speaking of how best to pull out your spectral counterpart's eyes at the dinner table. He isn't "supposed" to use his powers for vengeful purposes. He is Daniel Fenton, and if he is to be any sort of hero, he must be a saint. Turn the other cheek, and all that. It isn't particularly rewarding after a morning of being whacked upside the head by specters to get shoved inside of a locker by people to whom you've done nothing to, but hey, using your powers to take revenge would be simply mean.

Even if these people knocked out one of your teeth in fourth grade or pushed your books into a puddle or tied your hair to a doorknob or beaten you until you've seen stars and tasted rust in your mouth, it would just be unfair to take out your frustration on people with supernatural powers. Certainly, Danny wonders how Sam would take it if someone tried to bully her were she in his position, but her rich guilt would most likely get in her way, anyway. In any case, she smiles with approval at the end of the day when she can cradle his swollen face in her lap, and Tuck can murmur his assent, so that must make it okay.

To do anything else-to feel resentment-is wrong. Always wrong. Shouldn't the knowledge that Danny COULD get serious payback if he wanted to be enough? Dash and his cronies were awful people, (Awful people that Danny had to protect) but Danny would just have to sit back and be patient. And smile.

_How can you complain when you can fly? When you battle ghosts? When people would give their right arms to be you?_ This was what was gently broken to Danny when the boy would be nursing his wounds-received while fighting ghosts or becoming a whip puppet for bullies. And Danny, ashamed, sheepish, and bashful, would have no choice but to agree and swallow his words, which trembled in his throat, and were like hardtack.

Danny shouldn't have had any complaints at all. His future had all but been planned out by his loved ones, whom dreamed of seeing Danny and Sam in a flowery wedding one day, of throwing rice at the happy couple while they ran off towards the clichéd, typical limo with the 'Just Married' sign on the back, and took off into the sunset, most likely off to have 2.5 children, a typical, suburban home, a cat, a dog, and a happy future together painted with smiley face stickers and hearts.

Never mind that the idea made Danny uncomfortable, or that people were gently pushing him (And soon, not so gently pushing him) towards Sam, because the two were "cute" together, and it made him feel awkward and shy. Never mind that no one had ever asked Danny what he wanted out of life, because the correct answer was that, in a trio with two boys and a girl (Or vice versa), a girl and boy did an adorable, romantic song-and-dance around each other because they were too timid to admit their feelings to one another. Then, after a series of misadventures, they finally got together, and, joy abundant; you have your soul mate.

Never mind Danny was in freaking high school. His mother was all but searching for wedding chapels that took reservations four or five years in advance. Never mind that Danny had no one to confide that what he would very much like to have one day was a little home in a quiet town someplace-a quaint, modest house that had flowers growing outside the door and a bench out back perfect for sitting in the sun on, with someone pleasant to talk to by your side.

But that was one of Danny Fenton's darkest secrets, even though it absolutely paled in comparison to the monstrous secret that had been eating away at his heart for some time, now. He'd never share it with anyone, not with the girl that familiarly patronized him and reminded him of his duties, not the best friend that took more stock in what his PDA had to say than his words, not with the sister that would convince his parents to send him to a camp where they pray the gay away.

Although he wondered if he might not be willing to share it with the man that had held him that forbidden evening, and allowed him that terrifying, god awful, adrenaline-soaring few moments of sheer uncertainty and fear and doubt and pleasure. It wasn't as though he had anything left to lose in that department, anyway.

He was not supposed to be human; soon enough, he stopped buying video games. Pleasure, ridiculous as it sounded, was becoming alien to him. Wrong, even. He only once ignored a scream that was coming from a building beside the Nasty Burger, but already exhausted by a tough day at school, he'd been reassured to see a police car zooming up to it, and left it in peace.

The next day in the paper, he'd read about a young girl that had been trapped, raped, killed, and then eaten by a criminally insane serial killer. Sometimes, it was still difficult to sleep, and the photo of the smiling teenager in the paper still haunted him, and drove him to dependency on his sleeping pills.

He was supposed to be happy. He could not want anything after this gift had been so unceremoniously dumped on him without his asking. He could not be lonely, even if he was, as his species, technically all alone in the world.

Well, not quite.

And that was yet another thing horribly wrong with Danny. When the only other hybrid in the world happens to be an evil, desperate maniac that's after your father's blood, you're not supposed to go after it and seek clarity. You fight it.

You don't confess your misery, break down, and weep. You don't let yourself be held by a monstrosity. Particularly when you keep in mind that said monstrosity is a male. A gentle pat on the back? Okay. Forgivable, sort of. Confessing your sadness-the sadness that should not be there, even after your dreams have been stripped of whimsy and hope-is not forgivable. Breaking down is not forgivable.

But allowing yourself to be pushed onto a bed, and ravished by a man as lonely as you are who is double your age and then some, is so disgusting, revolting, selfish, stupid, and beautiful that there isn't much forgiveness left.

And, with that in mind, Danny penned a note of farewell on his desk at home, and soared into the skies of Amity Park late one evening shortly after his tryst. He could faintly hear soft noises coming from himself-he wondered if he might be crying, or singing.

Perhaps both.

* * *

><p>He'd drifted on a few gentle gusts, limbs outstretched, as if he were making a snow angel. The stars glittered above him, and thousands and thousands of feet below, Amity Park's dull yellow lights broke through the night in a vain attempt to keep it out entirely. From so high up, it looked like a cluster of fireflies.<p>

Danny had smiled absently.

And then, a pair of rings had twinkled to life at his waist, and the ghost boy became human once again. He'd plummeted like a falling star, only to land in a pair of arms that were waiting for him.

Shocked and disoriented, there isn't much left for him to do as he's crushed to someone's chest, and he smells a familiar scent. It's warm. Someone's pressing a hand behind his head. He's still staring at the firefly display below.

"Little badger," says the ghost, with such tender sadness and fear that makes Danny want to laugh. "What in the world were you doing?"

When it starts raining shortly after, and the paint comes washing off, there isn't much of a response other than tears when he's cradled, and carried overseas.


End file.
